


Under Your Stars

by terrormusical



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrormusical/pseuds/terrormusical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“The song you guys open with, that's dark shit. That's the kinda stuff scene kids cut their wrists to.” She scoffs, placing a warm, somewhat sweaty hand on his shoulder, walking away before he can respond.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It's probably for the best, though, because he was just about to say, "You have no idea."</i>
</p><p>(Trigger warning: graphic depiction of self-harm)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Stars

“Dude, it's like, ninety degrees out here,” Jon says, pulling his shirt up and over his head and letting it drop carelessly to the asphalt. He attempts to lean against the bus but hisses and stands upright not more than a second later. It must be white hot, Ryan thinks, marveling at the way it sparkles in the sun. “Are you sure you're okay in that?” Jon asks, nodding toward Ryan's long sleeves. Black shirt, nonetheless.

 

“'m fine,” Ryan insists, poking his thumbs through the thumb holes, securing his sleeves where they are. Jon shrugs, groans when he hears the distant call of “soundcheck in five.”

 

*

 

Today was a close call, Ryan thinks as he pulls the sharpened file, orphaned from the manicure kit it came with, turning it until he briefly reflects the artificial light of the bus bathroom into his own eyes.

 

They have to suspect something, he reminds himself. They have to be suspicious about all the time he spends in the bathroom, the way his eyes look red-ringed and hollow when he finally comes out, sometimes an hour later. They never say anything to him. Sometimes he wished they did.

 

They've all made comments about his lyrics at some point or another (Spencer's “When did you get so emo, dude? It was an overnight thing, I don't remember a transition phase.”) and even their opening act noticed, Jesus.

 

“I fucking love your set, you know that?” Amanda said to him as he left the stage one night, that pleasant burning sensation between his shoulders that he got after every show from standing up for so long. “The song you guys open with, that's dark shit. That's the kinda stuff scene kids cut their wrists to.” She scoffs, placing a warm, somewhat sweaty hand on his shoulder, walking away before he can respond.

 

It's probably for the best, though, because he was just about to say  _You have no idea._

 

*

 

It's dangerous, he knows it. He knows he pushes his luck every single time he closes the bathroom door behind him and reaches into the little bag on the counter, feeling around for the metal file and wedging himself between the sink and the shitty shower, positioning it over his wrist and eventually pressing it in.

 

It's sharpened, but dull enough that it takes some work, and it's always messy. He kind of likes it more that way, kind of thinks he deserves it.

 

He makes the first cut, the skin puckering and pulling a bit as the file cuts through it, and when he draws it back it looks clean for a second. This is his favorite part, right here, the way the raised skin starts bubbling up with fresh, crimson blood just a moment later. He watches it, feeling the pain in his wrist and everywhere else.

 

He thinks,  _They're all there to hear your words, your music, every night,_ and then he thinks,  _I'll just disappoint them,_ and finally, as he starts to slow down and feel weak and dizzy,  _What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?_

 

He rests his forearm on his thigh, keeping his eyes trained on the thin cuts, and soon the vitamin K comes to the rescue and stops the blood from dripping onto the tile where a nice, little red pool has formed. After staring at it for a few moments, he realizes,  _yeah, I should probably clean that up before it stains, and I should probably clean my arm, too._

 

But God, he's weak. So goddamn weak, his brain screaming move, come on, move, but his muscles are too fatigued, so he sits there, breathing raspily.

 

_You're a mess, Jesus, look at yourself. People hate messes. No one's ever gonna fall in love with a fuck up like you._

 

As if on cue the skinny white door opens and Brendon steps in, stops mid-sentence. “Ry, you've been in here for like—Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

He's still in the doorway for a moment and when no one else appears behind him, Ryan assumes everyone else is asleep, everyone but perfect, angelic Brendon, fucking glowing in the doorway, God, Ryan would kill for someone like him but he's left-brained and he knows he'll never find them, so he raises the file still clenching in his right fist and shakily positions it over his wrist again.

 

Brendon snaps out of his shocked daze at the sight, slides to his knees on the cold tile next to Ryan who isn't much warmer. It's almost like he's _dying,_ Brendon thinks, grabbing the bloody file and throwing it onto the floor. It clatters for a moment, making sharp metallic sounds that seem to wake Ryan up like a splash of cold water.

 

He looks down on himself, the blood all over his blue pants and his scarred arms and the stained tile, and he thinks, _You're a monster._ He can't stop the tears that well up at the corners of his eyes, and he can't stop them from spilling down his cheeks. “I can't—I can't...” He can't move, he can't speak.

 

Brendon grips Ryan by the biceps, then by the waist, pulling him to his feet and pulling his forearm under the stream of cool water pouring from the sink. It makes goosebumps appear all over his arms, and a frigid shiver ripples through his body, his vision blurred. “I'm sorry, I--”

 

“Ryan, shut up, God, just—just shut up,” Brendon says, the harsh words somehow tender and comforting and _warm,_ out of place.

 

Ryan says nothing, just stands there uselessly watching as Brendon washes away the blood, his eyes wide and his bottom lip quivering. He's beautiful in a new way when he's afraid, Ryan thinks, and not just afraid as if he's watching a horror movie, but truly scared.

 

Then Ryan remembers it's all his fault, and a fresh crop of warm, salty tears blur his vision again.

 

*

 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Brendon asks gently, predictably, biting his bottom lip and hugging his knees to his chest. They had been sitting at the opposite ends of the same couch, staring at the wall across from it in total silence.

 

Ryan's freshly bandaged arm throbs, stinging just a little, and he says, “No. Um, yes. Not now.”

 

Brendon nods, his dark eyes downcast as Ryan catches a glimpse of them and thinks _He deserves an explanation now._

 

Ryan draws in a long breath. “It's...it's just that so much is expected of me now, sometimes, I wish...” Brendon looks up, waiting. “I don't know. I wish I hadn't done this sometimes. Sometimes I wish I went to college and got a boring nine-to-five job, a wife, I don't know, kids. Privacy.”

 

He waits for Brendon to gasp, for his expression to change. He's silent.

 

“My life is never going to be the same again, you know? I—I love music, you know that, but...” He exhales, long and slow. “I think I fucked it up.”

 

Brendon doesn't need to ask what 'it' is; he already knows.

 

“And I'm worried that I'll never find someone, you know? I'm always going to be Ryan Ross, musician,” he adds, quietly, sheepishly. “I don't think I'll ever find somebody who wants me for me.”

 

Brendon does something strange then. Instead of responding, he reaches across the feet between them and takes Ryan's hand from his knee, flipping it over, tracing the lines of his palm, running his calloused fingertips over Ryan's, who sighs contentedly.

 

“You will, promise,” Brendon says, and then, a thickly silent moment later, “I'm tired. I think I'm gonna hit the hay.”

 

A despairing feeling hits the pit of Ryan's stomach like an iron weight as Brendon's fingers slip from in between his, and maybe it was just Ryan, but they felt kind of perfect there. “Don't go,” he says, pleading. Brendon turns around. “Stay.” Ryan swallows thickly.

 

“I'll grab blankets. And pillows, hang on.” He disappears through the curtain, into the bunks, and Ryan is left alone in the lounge for a few seconds. He's reminded that he's in a bus that's rattling down some lonesome, numbered highway, and he begins to feel desperate until Brendon reemerges. His arms are full, and he drops everything on the floor with a delicate smile. Ryan returns it feebly.

 

A few minutes later they're warmly tucked between blankets, pressed together in a nest of pillows on the three-foot wide strip of floor, and Brendon tentatively rests his hand on Ryan's hip, says, “We're in this together, right, Ry?” And he doesn't let himself fall asleep until he feels Ryan's response, mumbled into his hair.

 

“Right,” Ryan whispers, melting through the floor, lulled to sleep by the pulse that's beating rhythmically in his arm.

 

*

 

“You do know that I love you, right?” Brendon asks the next day as they fold the blankets.

 

Ryan tells his heart to slow down. It doesn't listen. “In what way?” He asks meekly.

 

Brendon gives it a few seconds' thought, messily piling the blankets onto the old, worn couch, and says, “Every way.”

 

Ryan surges forward to kiss him, hands pressing to the sides of his neck, and he's afraid for a moment, but then Brendon smiles and everything is okay again.

 

*

 

They're at a party and Ryan is trying to make conversation with some douchebag he went to school with, one of the football players that's like, a fucking kindergarten teacher now, and has sudden interest in being Ryan's friend. He thinks, _is it any wonder?_ And laughs at a joke that isn't funny.

 

Brendon appears beside him, coming to the rescue, poking his ribcage and whispering, “Hey, gorgeous,” low and deep so that only Ryan can hear.

 

“Oh,” the guy laughs, understanding now. “Starting batting for the other team, huh? You never had a girlfriend in high school, did you?” Ryan is speechless. “Some things never change,” the asshole adds, completely unnecessarily, and Ryan grinds his teeth and clenches his hands into fists, but Brendon whispers, “Ignore him,” and pulls on his hand until he surrenders and follows him into the crowd.

 

*

 

Ryan's lips are pressed into the crook of Brendon's neck, and he's panting against his warm skin. The sheets slide over them, cool and clean. It's so nice to be in a hotel for once, God, just like this, Brendon over him, jerking him off slowly, Brendon kissing his scars, Brendon kissing his neck.

 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, his breath hitching in his throat. He slips his hand under Brendon's shirt, up the smooth curve of his back, digging his nails into his soft skin. “I'm so fucking close.”

 

“Good,” Brendon whispers, close his ear, biting Ryan's bottom lip, and Ryan shivers and comes.

 

“Mm,” Brendon hums, wiping his hand clean on the crisp white duvet, falling to the side, and they both laugh lightly as feathers are sent flying into the air above them.

 

Later, Brendon looks over Ryan's shoulder as he writes and sees a glimpse of _there are feathers everywhere but it's fine, you do this all the time,_ and he lightly smacks the back of Ryan's head, chuckling. “You're gonna give us away, dumbass,” he chides, but Ryan feels the brief brush of soft lips on the side of his neck before he hears Brendon's footsteps as he walks away, and he smiles.

 

*

 

In his dream, Ryan is the only one in the audience and Brendon is up on stage, singing and looking right at him. It's one of their songs but he's too dazed to figure out which one. Suddenly, crystal clear, he hears _raindrops on roses,_ and it's too real and too close, and when he opens his eyes Brendon really is singing to him. Gray morning light is filtering in through the window, falling over them softly.

 

“Good morning,” Brendon whispers against his neck, kissing it slowly, and the bar is set pretty damn high now as far as _nice ways to wake up on a Sunday_ go.

 

“You too,” Ryan says, his voice still raspy with sleep, and Brendon laughs, sitting up.

 

“Christ, it's amazing to have a day off," he says. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and he looks kind of rough, but fuck if it doesn't look good on him. Ryan reaches out to touch the graceful, pale curve of Brendon's back, his fingertip bumping over the vertebrae as it moves downward.

 

Brendon shivers and draws the blanket back over both of them, moving closer to Ryan, and he's soft and warm and perfect. He pulls Ryan's wrist into view, already knows which one without looking, and he examines the shiny, parallel scars for a minute before he kisses them, traces them with his tongue. Ryan doesn't want to moan, he doesn't want to shatter the quiet morning, but he can't suppress it.

 

“Fuck, Ry, I love that sound,” Brendon says, swinging a leg over Ryan's hip to straddle him.

 

Ryan hates it when he does this, pins Ryan down and completely ravishes him without any reciprocity. “I hate it when you do this,” Ryan argues weakly, because Brendon is sucking feverishly on his pulse point.

 

“No you don't,” Brendon says, kissing Ryan, whose last clear thought is _yeah, he's right._

 

*

 

“Ry,” Brendon says one night as they leave the stage, grabbing Ryan's sleeve and pulling him aside, out of the stream of techs and stage crew. “I know I ask you this all the time, but,” he pauses here, breaking the eye contact for a second, “You're okay, right? I mean, I'm sure if you weren't you'd tell me, but—”

 

“I'm fine,” Ryan says for the first time in his life without lying about it. “Seriously,” he adds for good measure.

 

Brendon believes him, Ryan can tell, because he parts his lips and leans up for the softest, sweetest kiss, his hand gripping Ryan's bicep. “Good,” he says. “I'm glad.”  

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading (: title taken from "beautiful" by smashing pumpkins.


End file.
